


Until the Sun Went Down (i can't sleep)

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Fall Out Boy
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/M, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick dying is not on the agenda today. Pete really wishes the thing trying to eat him had gotten the memo, because this is not on. Not on at <i>all</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until the Sun Went Down (i can't sleep)

Patrick dying is not on the agenda today. Pete really wishes the thing trying to eat him had gotten the memo because this is not on. Not on at _all._

Patrick ducks the thing's swiping claw, yelling in a particularly feminine manner as he rolls onto his back on the pavement of the parking lot. Sunlight gleams off the creature's round, green face and the exposed tops of its- her, apparently- breasts. She's in a black cloak, the material swirling around her like it has a life of its own. Her emerald green hands are reaching for Patrick's throat, her rope-like hair bouncing with each quick movement of her body.

"A little help would be nice," Patrick calls out, voice high pitched as he scuttles backward. Pete looks around the parking lot for a weapon, Joe and Andy next to him frantically doing the same. "Today guys!" The creature lunges at him again. Patrick manages to roll, and the monster comes up with a handful of the pavement that had been right under his head. She shrieks and throws the rock to the ground, the pieces shattering on impact. 

"Hey," Pete shouts. The thing's head jerks up, her thick, snakelike dreadlocks waving independently of one another. Pete's skin crawls as she looks at him, but he keeps her attention long enough for Patrick to scramble to his feet. Patrick runs toward him at full speed, jacket billowed out behind him, hat falling off as he goes.

"Now what?' Joe asks, backing away as the creature begins stalking toward them.

"Running sounds like the way to go," Andy replies, already half turned. Pete agrees wholeheartedly with this plan. He turns, following after the blur that was once his lead singer, Andy and Joe close at his heels. 

They break out of the parking lot, following the path of straight, empty street. It leads them to the biggest cemetery Pete's ever seen, and if that isn't just going straight from the frying pan into the fire. The thing is still chasing them though, floating a few inches above the ground. Pete's willing to take his chances with ghosts and zombies if it means getting away, and he speeds up, his thighs burning like they haven’t in years. 

Patrick clears a headstone, his sneakers sinking into the mud as he lands. Pete is impressed until the monster screeches. Then he's too worried about covering his ears than about watching Patrick's impressive backside in motion.

"Duck!"

Pete rolls to the ground, mud seeping into his jeans as he curls into himself and flings his arms over his head. Something whizzes by, the air going cold with the force of it, and then the monster screams again, earsplitting and shrill. It's a terrifying noise.

"Is it dead?" He asks when he gets the courage to look up. 

Patrick's panting behind a petite blonde's legs, face red, sprawled out on the ground, arms and legs at awkward angles. He looks naked without his hat. The blonde girl is holding a crossbow- which, woah, that's weird- her lips in a tight line. There's a guy running up behind her, possibly Patrick's age, wearing what is quite possibly the ugliest shirt Pete has ever seen. 

"Nope," the girl replies, pouting. "Ran away."

"They always run. Maybe it's the pointy objects?" Hawaiian shirt guy shakes his head. "Oh, hey. Victims. Is any one bit?" He looks them over, from Pete to Joe to Andy to Patrick at the girl's feet. "Oh! You're in the band with the-" He hums a bar of _Grand Theft Autumn_ excitedly.

"Fall Out Boy? Yeah," Pete says, climbing to his feet. He grimaces at the wet patches on his jeans. He looks back to the gate of the cemetery. The creature's gone. "That's us."

"Awesome. I'm Xander. Big fan." Xander reaches a hand out to Patrick, dragging him up to his feet with ease. 

"Patrick. What was that?" Patrick smoothes his hair back nervously, shifting unsteadily in the muck. His pants are definitely trash, now. Maybe his jacket too. 

"Demon," the girl says brightly. She tucks the crossbow into a satchel over her shoulder, locking the flaps down with well loved Velcro. Pete eyes it warily, wondering what other kind of pointy things she's got in there. 

"Oh," he says, glancing up at the girl's face "That makes sense."

"Buffy!" A redheaded girl sprints up to the blonde- Buffy, apparently- her fuzzy blue sweater too hot for the California sun. "There was a demon floating over the Bronze- Oh! You're that band!'

"Fall Out Boy," Xander says, rocking on his heels. "Patrick, Willow. Willow, Patrick. I didn't get other names. There was a demon trying to eat them."

"Is anyone bit?" Willow asks, looking at all of them in turn.

"I think we're good," Joe says, mildly bemused. Pete catches Andy eyeing Willow and grins at him. Andy smirks back, shrugging. Nice to know that some things never change.

"So, uh, demon, huh?" Patrick steps over a few fresh graves gingerly, stumbling into Pete. "Is that- Does it- Why?" He’s got his patient face on, but Pete can see the gears clicking from yards away. 

"Good question." Buffy dusts her tight leather pants off, checking for tears before glancing up at Xander and Willow. "Giles?"

"I'll bring the popcorn," Willow says. She's awfully chipper for someone who lives in a city with monsters. Plural monsters, if their reaction to the demon says anything. Pete’s not sure if he should be reassured by this or not. 

"Hey, are you guys playing the Bronze?" Xander asks, motioning for them to follow. Pete raises his eyebrows at Patrick who just shrugs, already picking his way through the mud. Looks like they're going along for the ride.

"We were," Andy responds as they cross from the muddy grasses of the cemetery onto dry sidewalk. "But then there was almost death. It kind of put a damper on things."

Xander nods. "Understandable."

Sunnydale, aside from being hostile, is actually a pretty nice place. The houses lined up on the streets are neat and clean; their green lawns trimmed, picket fences and gravel driveways and little window gardens included. It's a quiet place, with only a few cars on the road and even fewer people on the sidewalks. Pete's a little thrown by it. He's so used to cities being loud and busy and cramped that this place seems unnatural.

Buffy leads them to a modest house, knocking once before stepping inside confidently. Pete follows after, glancing over his shoulder as he heads in to make sure there's no sign of the demon tracking them. There's just the guys and Willow and Xander though, so he figures they're safe for now at least. Still, he slips in at the end of the line and shuts the door himself. 

"Giles," Buffy calls, setting her satchel down by the door. The inside of the house is cluttered but neat, filled with books and weird trinkets. It makes him think of Nana Wentz’ house, and Pete wants to pick them up and mess with them. 

A middle-aged man with graying hair steps out from what Pete is assuming is the kitchen. He's dressed in slacks and a sweater ugly enough to rival some in Patrick's collection, blinking at the large group assembled in his living room. Pete waves. This must be Giles.

"Buffy. Who. Well. Hello?" He has a British accent, stiff and proper. Pete thinks it's a little awesome, but he sees Andy flinch next to him. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"Demon," Buffy says. "Green. Shiny. Big hair."

"That's very specific," Giles says, removing his glasses to rub the pad of his index finger across the bridge of his nose. There are deep-seated wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He looks tired. "Can I ask who your friends are?"

"Fall Out Boy," Willow chirps, her face lighting up. Andy's tracing the curve of her hips through her gray skirt with his eyes unsubtly. He's getting laid. Pete can sense it already. "They're a band."

"Of course they are." Giles sounds exasperated, and Pete wonders which kid belongs to him. 

"Not to be weird or anything," Patrick says slowly, "but what are you?” He’s standing by the door, watching Buffy move easily through the house, arms crossed over his chest. 

"The Slayer." Buffy settles in at the dining room table comfortable, like she's at home here. Maybe she's Giles' kid. There aren't really any sign of it- no similar face shapes or passing of accent- but Pete's definitely getting family vibes. "I fight the demons."

"And still has time to hit the books," Xander adds, flopping into the chair next to her. 

"Life is hard," Buffy laments. She's pretty in a classical sense; narrow nose and big blue eyes and shiny blonde curls. She's thin, arms and legs lean and strong, like a runner or a cheerleader, and Pete would definitely have picked her up in a bar if things were different. As it is, he knocks his shoulder into Patrick’s and drags him into the dining room. 

"Yes, well. Can you describe the attack?" Giles sits at the table across from Buffy, looking at Pete specifically. Inside, Pete crows. He is _totally_ the group leader, democracy be damned.

"We were setting up, just getting stuff out of the van, right? And me and Joe were pulling out the last of the amps when Patrick let out this fucking girly ass scream-"

"My face was about to be eaten, dick-"

"And when I turned around, this giant green chick was clawing at him." Pete makes a claw with his own hands and slashes them at the air, snarling. Patrick rolls his eyes. "We ran, we ducked for cover. Buffy came along, and now here we are."

"Surprisingly few sound effects," Joe says approvingly, nodding his head.

"I do my best." Pete stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets and scans the rag tag group of demon killers expectantly. Problem identified. Now all that’s left is to fix it. "So. What is it?"

"I can't say for sure. 'Giant green chick' isn't exactly the most precise description." Giles stands, walking briskly to a set of shelves. He plucks a book out and flips through a few pages, frowning. Pete figures this means he has to have some idea at least, which is a comforting thought.

Patrick is silent, his studying face on, but Pete can see the small shake in his hands, balled into loose fists at his sides. He's so small, even next to the itty-bitty Buffy, and Pete's struck dumb by the thought of anything- human, demon, whatever- hurting him. It's wrong on any level. A surge of protectiveness rises up into his chest, and he loops a casual arm over Patrick's shoulders just to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Patrick shoots him a weird look, but Pete just gives him what he hopes is an even grin and holds on tighter. Patrick smiles, and the quake of his hands calms somewhat. Pete lifts his arm long enough to pull Patrick's hood up, covering his messy red hair. The shaking stops all together.

Andy's phone goes off, the opening chords to some hardcore band Pete's steadfastly refusing to listen to startling them in the silence. He makes an abortive hand gesture in lieu of an apology and flips the phone open, stepping away politely before mumbling a greeting into the mouthpiece.

"Korean Tom Cruise," he says when he hangs up. Pete catches the look Xander and Willow share and snorts. What kind of place do they have making fun of names, seriously? "He's at the Bronze with the van."

"We're dead?" Joe asks.

"If we're not there in the next twenty minutes? Pretty much." Andy shoves his phone back into his shorts pocket and looks over his shoulder at the door. "Is it safe to go back out?"

"We can go with," Xander says quickly, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. "Be your supernatural bodyguards." He looks between Pete and Patrick, grinning hopefully.

"Yeah. You know, keep an eye on things." Willow smiles brightly at them, and Pete's laughing because wow. Dork power.

"You want to come backstage with us?" Patrick asks, and it's like a light switch has been turned on; big smiles and rapidly nodding heads all over the place. It's cool in a way because _fans_. Awesome. But, still. Way to dork.

\---

Pete thinks belatedly about leaving the van doors open in their haste to run the fuck away. Their stuff is still untouched though, most of it already inside the building, everything just like they had left it. This is a giant relief; they're finally getting good cash, but that's not nearly enough to replace anything at this point in time. 

Patrick's watching the area around him suspiciously, like the great green bitch is going to pop out of the parking lot at any second. He's skittish as he helps Joe with the aborted amp, nearly dropping it on the way down the ramp. Pete winces. Patrick's not unflappable, but he's not normally so jumpy either. 

Inside the Bronze the houselights are on, showing all the scuff marks on the floor and the chips in the paint on the walls. It kills some of the magic, seeing every imperfection so clearly. Korean Tom Cruise is talking to the manager behind the bar, his squinty eyes flicking over to them. Pete waves and hopes that they aren't going to get a lashing; he really doesn't want to go into the story. 

Xander and Willow aren't really any help. They're mostly bouncing around the stage, asking questions about the set up and the band. It's nice to have the company though, and Patrick looks more relaxed with them around, the tight, nervous line of his shoulders going softer in small increments as he talks about the local music scene with them. 

Pete hates setting up with a fiery, fiery passion. They're the headliner, but they haven't actually met their opener yet, which means Pete hasn't gotten the chance to sweet talk anyone into playing bitch for them. He's sulking as he checks the faulty line on his amp, biting back a curse as it shocks him. He sucks his fingers into his mouth, scowling at his band mates for spite. They ignore him, for the most part. 

Andy is in Get Laid mode. Pete watches as Andy shows Willow the way his kit fits together, leaning in closer than he really needs to, touching the small space of her exposed wrist with casual fingers. Willow's all bright smiles and fluttery hands, focused intently on everything Andy's saying. Pete snorts again. 

"So," Joe says, picking out a guitar from the rack, "is this normal?"

"The demon?" Xander asks. Joe nods, hooking up to the big stack at the corner of the stage. A buzz of static echoes across the venue as he flips it on before evening out to a steady, familiar hum. "Pretty much."

"Don't people, like, get suspicious?" Joe checks his strings with lazy fingers, plucking out quiet chords as he goes along. "Like. _Demons_."

"You'd think. Buffy slays, the day gets saved." There's a note of pride in Xander's voice, clear and crisp. It makes Pete think about his own voice when he’s singing Patrick’s praises. "The police blame it on drugs in the water. The demons are all very hush hush."

Pete's about to ask exactly how many times people think they've been exposed to drugged water, but he's distracted by a flicker of Patrick sneaking backstage to start warming up. He grins to himself and leans his still untuned bass against the wall, following after quietly. Life's about to take an upturn.

Pete's not really sure where he and Patrick stand. There's a lot of late night groping and the occasional making out in the van, and a ridiculous lot of affection everywhere else, but they've never really talked about it. Pete is inches away from being in love so he tries not to push it. Patrick's giving him something and he has to take it as it is or risk it being taken away. 

Pete really doesn't want it to be taken away. 

The dressing room is itty bitty, overstuffed with a couch and the most haggard coffee table Pete's ever seen. The carpet is an ugly sort of mustard orange shag, tiny cigarette burns lined up all across it. A sad little mirror hands on an exposed nail behind the couch, cracked at one edge, its gilded frame tarnished and battered. Not exactly the Ritz, then. Still, a door with a lock is a door with a lock, and Pete will take his blessings as they come. 

Patrick has already set up shop, tucked away into a corner with his CD player, humming along. His eyes are closed, head tipped back, the tiny bare patch at the crown of his head just visible under the wide band of his oversized earphones. He switches from humming to singing softly, fingertips tapping the beat against the bottom of the CD player.

His voice is sure and full like always, even when it's so soft. Pete stops in the doorway, just listening. This, he thinks, is the best thing to ever happen to him; this baby-faced kid with an angel's voice and a fiery temper and the sweetest smile in the world. He could spend days at Patrick's feet listening to him sing. Would if he was able to. If Patrick would let him. 

Pete closes the door softly even though he knows Patrick can't hear him. The sweet sound of Patrick singing a Beatles song Pete can't place fills the room, bouncing off the plaster walls in a faint echo. Pete steps around the couch, squeezing in to get into Patrick's corner, and sinks to his knees at Patrick's feet. 

The singing cuts off abruptly, the tinny sound of prerecorded voices leaking through the headphones all that's left, and Pete feels suddenly empty, like someone's scooped out all of his insides. Patrick turns to face him, bright green sneakers scuffing quietly on the carpet. Big blue eyes blink at him, and Pete smiles broadly because there's nothing else he can do. There’s never anything else he can do. 

"Sing," he says. Patrick can't hear him, but he knows him well enough by now to know what he wants, and he only hesitates a moment before opening his mouth again, voice pouring out like liquid gold, filling Pete up again.

He keeps singing as Pete runs his hands up his thighs, fingers spread wide. They shake a little, and Pete's not sure if it's from him or from the long day, but he's going to pretend it's because of him either way. Patrick is warm and solid under his hands, familiar and still foreign, and Pete needs him like he needs air and water and music. 

Patrick's jeans taste like dirt, filthy under the kisses Pete's pressing to Patrick's knees, but Pete doesn't really care. He slides his hands up to the curve of Patrick's hips, sinking his fingers into the soft give of his sides. Patrick's voice wavers slightly when Pete rubs his cheek against his slowly hardening cock, but he keeps up the steady stream of words, bold and clear. 

The old, worn button of Patrick's least favorite pair of jeans pops off easily under the coaxing of Pete's thumb, the too big waist sagging down without the support. The song switches to something slow and rich, Patrick's voice dropping an octave, rumbling down through his chest. Pete can feel it in his veins as he tugs the zipper down slowly, tooth by tooth.

Patrick leans back against the wall, his grip on his CD player tight, his other hand sliding down to wind gently into Pete's hair. Pete butts his head up into his hand like a cat, humming as he slips Patrick's cock out of the slit of his boxers. He laps at the head with a broad stroke of his tongue, humming against at the salty taste of precome. Patrick's voice grows louder, a low boom that wraps itself up in Pete's chest. 

Pete loves this; loves the give of Patrick's soft stomach under his hand, the full feel as he takes Patrick's cock in as far as he can. He looks up adoringly at Patrick's flushed face, at Patrick's pretty pink mouth wrapping obscenely around words Pete isn't even trying to make out. He sucks gently as he pulls back, hollowing his cheeks. If only he could stay here. If only he could drag it out forever.

But there's a time limit today, and Pete can hear people moving around in the hall already. He shoves Patrick's stubborn jeans down far enough to work his hand in, rubbing his thumb over Patrick's heavy balls through his boxers. Time and practice has taught him the tricks to get Patrick off, shown him all the places to suck and kiss and lick, and the hand in his hair is tightening in no time, Patrick's thighs going tense.

Pete's so hard it hurts, his dick pressing right up against the back of his zipper. He wants to jerk off so _badly_ , but there's no way he's going to stop touching any part of Patrick until he absolutely has to. He takes in as much as he can and hums off key.

Patrick's voice cracks on a moan, low and deep, and he's coming, shoving weakly at Pete's shoulder. Pete swallows, cringing a little at the taste, and grins up at him. Patrick smiles back shakily. His headphones have fallen off, hanging around his neck, and his cheeks are pink, lips are a shiny red because he keeps licking them.

Pete presses a hand to his erection, hissing as it strains up, and promises it that it'll get what it deserves later. Now though, he stands and kisses Patrick's open mouth, licking inside just to feel Patrick pull back in disgust, laughing.

"You're so gross," Patrick says breathlessly.

"You love it." Pete kisses his hot cheek, the pound of Patrick's heartbeat steady against his. He smiles when Patrick rests his head on his shoulder, breathing heavily against Pete's neck. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Patrick pulls back, not quite meeting Pete's eyes. "You want...?" He waves a hand at Pete's crotch, already moving in.

"Later," Pete says reluctantly. 

Patrick nods and sets his CD player on the back of the couch carefully before following Pete back to the stage. The opening band is there with their things, looking awkwardly around at their set-up. Andy is talking to one of them, ever the brotherly type, motioning to the drum riser. Pete carefully avoids them. His own set up is enough, thanks. 

Joe is at the bar with Willow and Xander, sipping on a Coke and nodding along very seriously to whatever Xander's saying. Pete isn't close enough to be sure, but there's a faint redness to his eyes that means he managed to sneak out for a quick smoke. Pete can't really blame him. He turns to Patrick to make a crack about it, but Patrick's already headed for his guitar, hood up over his head, slouched in. Operation: Make Patrick Forget Demons With Head was an utter failure.

\---

The opener- some local band with a creepy looking frontman- sucked. There's no nice way to say it, and Joe would feel bad about it at any other time, but he's blazed right now. The lights are glowing above the bar and around the stage, big, round blurs of red and blue and yellow arcing across the air in slow motion. He feels like he's walking in molasses; his legs are moving but it's slow going, and everyone around him seems to be zooming past, fading out into the lights.

His guitar is on. He knows this much, and he manages to steady himself by gripping the neck and fumbling for a pick. His fingers feel thick and huge, but they move across the fretboard without issue, like they're on their own path, like they have lives of their own. Joe pauses for a moment, staring at a fuzzy light spot, and wonders what kind of lives his fingers lead. Do they watch TV? Do they think he's God? Oh, wow, do his fingers, like, _worship_ him? 

The buzz of the crowd grows as Andy leads him by the elbow onto the dark stage. This is good. This is familiar. Nothing at all like earlier with the. With the _thing_. He can't bring himself to even think the word demon because that gives it power. Makes it real. And he just doesn't want that to be real. He's so fucking far gone that he can almost believe that it was just an effect of the drugs, even if he knows he's never hallucinated off shitty weed ever. 

There's no such thing as monsters, and that means that one of them didn't attack Patrick, didn't nearly kill him right in front of all of them. That means that Patrick's not shaking at his mic because he's afraid of what's out in the dark crowd, what might come back for him or Pete or Andy or- Joe shakes his head, pressing down too hard on his strings. He has no idea what they're playing, but it's hard and fast and he can play every single song on their set in his sleep at his point. 

The kids are yelling, screaming, and Joe can recognize a few words here and there, and they're _Pete's_ words. Joe laughs, spinning and spinning and spinning. This is what they've been working for. This is what's worth it, why they gave up everything in Chicago. This is normal and right and natural. He can lose himself in this.

Patrick sings like he's giving it everything every night, and tonight is no different. He's planted at the microphone, guitar like a shield in front of him. Joe spins closer, a moth to the flame. Pete's on his other side, screaming like the kids, voice barely registering over the PA. Joe can't see Andy, but he can feel him pounding away at his kit, and they're whole and complete; one unit of awesome, and no one- nothing- can get through to one of them without taking all four of them down. 

One of the kids in the front row screams, and it’s louder than all the rest, earsplitting. Joe's fingers scrape against his strings, a jarring, discordant note ringing out. He feels a shock of pain, and then there's blood at his fingertips. He hasn't done that since he was thirteen, back when his fingers were still too tender for the work he was putting them through. The fog in his brain clears as little as he plays through the pain, strings slick.

Another kid shrieks, and then the crowd's scattering. Pete stumbles back into his amp, and Andy's crash cymbal clatters to the ground as he jumps off the riser. Joe has no idea what's going on. His guitar smacks into his chest as Xander grabs him, a flying blur of bright flowered shirt. He manages to untangle himself from the strap, feedback screeching through the speakers as it hits the stage. Xander's half dragging, half carrying him, heading straight toward Patrick. Pete gets there first, tackling Patrick to the ground as a table flies at him. Flying tables are never a good sign, and Joe's getting way too sober way too fast because, shit, shit, shit, what _are_ those things?

There are six guys- Joe thinks they're dudes, but he's not going to walk up to take a closer look anytime soon, thanks- scattering the crowd, hissing and snarling, laughing at the screams. Their faces are seriously, seriously fucked, all protruding brow and cheekbones and big huge giant pointy teeth. Joe shakes his head and stares at them harder, hoping that he's just having a lapse and not actually seeing-

"Vampire, vampire, vampire," Xander says, pushing Joe along to the backstage area. "Always have to spoil the party."

"Vampire?" The high is gone, gone, gone, and everything seems to be going way too fast now. Xander shoves something into his hand. Joe blinks at the rough pointed stick.

"Stake. Use it if you have to." Xander looks back over his shoulder. Andy has an arm over Willow, shielding her from a spray of shattering glass. Blood streaks down over the bare skin of his back as shards dig into him. Joe thinks he's going to be sick. "Aim for the heart. But, mostly, try to run away."

Joe can deal with running. He likes that plan. Xander is already heading back to the stage, shoving another stake into Andy's hand. Joe can't see Pete or Patrick, and that's not right. He can't go anywhere without them. Taking a deep breath, he jogs back, scanning the kids for their familiar faces. One of the guys- _vampire_ , holy shit- has his face in a young girl's neck. When he pulls back, his mouth is red. Joe looks away, disgusted.

"Give us the singer," one of them yells over the din.

"Not gonna happen." Oh, thank god, there's Buffy. Joe is ready to propose. Buffy kicks the vampire with blood still dripping from his mouth in the chest, and he goes flying, landing in a heap on a table. Joe is _really_ ready to propose. Right after he’s done fleeing for his life. 

The club has mostly emptied out, and Joe can see Pete and Patrick at the edge of the stage. Willow's drawing something around them with chalk, and Joe doesn't even care what it is because everyone's safe for now. He's already running toward them. Something freezing clamps around his arm, tight like a vice. It swings him around, and Joe is suddenly nose to fangs with a snarling vampire.

The thing's breath smells like the time Pete had burnt out the tires on the van, thick saliva dripping from its extended fangs. The hand around Joe's arm goes tighter, lifting him off the floor, and Joe doesn't want to be food. He's too young to die or to become undead. Before he knows what he's doing, he's jamming the stake forward into the vampire's chest. There's a second where he thinks it isn't going to work- it's a _stick_ for Christ's sake- and then the point goes in past the initial resistance, and the vampire's face evens out into a regular human's before turning to ash.

Joe lands on his ass, dust falling over him like rain. The stake thumps down between his legs with a little hollow sound. Joe looks at it with a whole new respect. He's going to make a point to hug a tree after they get out of the bar. He grabs up the stake and rolls, just in time to miss another dust shower as Buffy stakes a vampire at the edge of the stage.

Willow's done with her circle and has started chanting. A witch. Things can't really get weirder at this point, so Joe flies with it, edging towards his friends. Xander's leading a particularly interesting line, running from two of the remaining vampires, leaping over upturned chairs in an entirely unspectacular manner. A small burst of light explodes from Willow's circle, and Joe gets it. Xander's the distraction.

"Trohman, get in," Pete calls, and Joe is good to go, racing over and sliding in. It feels like he's going through a waterfall, the air charged with crackling energy. Patrick catches him, looking worse for wear, bleeding from somewhere above his eyebrow. Joe hugs him with one arm as Willow starts chanting again. 

Buffy takes down the vampire at the end of the Xander train with a quick blow between its shoulder blades, dropping down to ram a broken off table leg through its back. It explodes just as Xander manages to run the last one into a rough edge of the bar. Team Keep Patrick Alive one, Team Creepies zero.

"Have we ever gotten a normal night at the Bronze?" Buffy asks, dusting her leather pants off. 

"Nope." Xander climbs up onto the stage and knocks on the invisible wall closest to Pete's face. "Good work, Wills. You're getting speedy."

"It's a good skill to have, right?" Willow bounces on the balls of her feet, clapping her hands together. "Witchy speed. I'm a valuable asset." 

''Extremely," Buffy says, smiling. She frowns again when she looks at Patrick. "They want you."

"Thank you Captain Obvious," Pete says tersely. "Would you like to point out the sun tomorrow?" Joe elbows him at the same time as Patrick.

"Why do they want _me_?" Patrick asks, a little incredulous. If this were a different time, Joe and Pete would be scrambling over themselves to knock a little sense into him. Patrick's a being of all sorts of awesome and he needs to realize it someday. Now, though, there isn't really an obvious answer.

"Do you think they were working for big, green and slimy?" Xander asks. Willow taps the wall and it falls almost palpably, the thick air returning to normal. Andy nods at her, and she blushes. Joe shakes his head. 

"Don't know," Buffy answers. "Willow, do the wards around Xander's basement still work?"

"They should," Willow replies. "I can always re-boost them."

"Patrick, you can stay with Xander tonight to wait out the vamps. I've got a guest room the rest of you can share." Buffy gives them an apologetic shrug. "Tomorrow we can be researchy."

"We're not leaving Patrick," Pete says, one hand wrapped around Patrick's wrist like an anchor. Patrick looks like he's about to fall over. Joe presses up against his other side, giving him a small smile that he hopes is reassuring.

"My basement is itty bitty," Xander says, holding his hands up to demonstrate. "And I already have Spike. I'm like a babysitter. Without pizza. Where's my free pizza?"

"I'll ask Giles to buy you pizza." Buffy pats his shoulder sympathetically before turning back to Pete. "They only want Patrick. If you stay in a big group, they'll know where he is. Xander has wards on his basement to keep uninvited demons out-"

"Demony ex-girlfriends," Xander explains, wincing. 

"So Patrick will be safe as long as he's there." Buffy touches Pete's wrist, and Pete lets go. Joe can see the strain clear as day. "Tomorrow we'll research and try to find out what's going on. Okay?" 

Pete glares, all four inches he's got over her reared up. Finally, he sighs and says, "Yeah, fine. Whatever."

"Do I get a say?" Patrick asks.

"Not really," Willow says like an apology. "When there's demons, Buffy's like the president."

Patrick doesn't put up a struggle, which is nice because it's way too late for one of his bitch fits. Joe hugs him after Andy does, and Pete kisses him full on the mouth, pulling back before anyone says anything. They watch Xander lead Patrick out the side exit, patting him consolingly on the back before beginning tear down.

\---

"It's not so bad," Xander says as they walk down the street. 

The air has a chill to it that doesn't belong in southern California, and Patrick hunches in on himself, tucking his hands into his pockets. He wants his band and he wants Pete and he even wants the shitty back row of the van with its fucked up springs and Doritos crumbs. If he's shaking a bit, it's only because things are trying to eat him. 

"I'm a bit of a demon magnet," Xander continues, laughing nervously. "It's cool though because I have Buffy." He waves a hand at a dark house on the side of the street, switching directions to cut through the yard. They walk down a small set of cement stairs to get to a beaten door set into the foundation, and Xander pats it fondly. "Chez Harris." He unlocks the door, pushing it open with a foot. Patrick hovers at the landing, peeking in as Xander turns on lights. "Hey, come in. You're a guest."

Patrick feels like he's being sucked in as he crosses into the basement, closing the door behind him. It has to be the wards at work. Goosebumps rise up his arms as he looks around. It's a small place, big enough to fit a television and a couch and a few shelves. There's a door that Patrick assumes is a bathroom at the edge of the room. The staircase that leads up into the main house is an ugly green that makes him think about Pete's ugly hoodies, and he feels something like homesickness as he sinks onto the only chair.

"You hungry?" Xander asks, and he looks like he's nervous. Patrick has no idea why until he remembers that, oh, this guy is a fan of his band and he's kind of being an ass right now.

"I'm good, thanks." Patrick runs a hand through his hair, unable to care that all of hats are in the van right now. "I'm actually kind of exhausted. It's. It's been kind of a long day."

"Yeah. Sorry." Xander winces and heads to the couch, pulling the cushions off. "It'll be okay, you know? Buffy's really good at what she does." The springs of the fold out mattress creak and groan as Xander wrestles it into submission, and Patrick feels at least a little better for his easy words. 

"Is there-" He stops and kicks off his shoes, shaking his head. "What makes her so good at it?"

"She's the Chosen One," Xander says simply as he rummages for pillows under the coffee table. "It's what she was made to do." He's so proud that Patrick can't help believing him. It's better this way. "Bed's ready."

"No, hey, this is your place." Patrick shrugs out of his jacket, folding it into an awkward little ball. "I can just sleep on the chair."

"Well," Xander says, rubbing his neck with one broad hand. "See, I have this other guest, right? I should probably warn you. He's a vampire but- hey, don't freak- he's been neutered. He's like a puppy. A puppy that eats all of the Wheaties and runs up the cable bill, but still. No bites from Spike."

"...You keep a vampire as a pet." Patrick has gone from okay with staying in the damp little basement to unsettled. 

"I- No, you see-" Xander flaps his hand in the air for a moment. "It's complicated. He gives us info and we don't stake him. It's win-win."

"Are you sure that I'm not going to be a midnight snack?" Patrick asks, and this is seriously the weirdest conversation he's ever had, and he's Pete Wentz's best friend. That speaks on so, so many volumes. 

"Absolutely. Spike can't get growly with humans or it's all," Xander holds a hand to his forehead and fakes a seizure, flopping down onto the floor. He pops back up and grins. It reminds Patrick of Joe. He feels homesick again. "Seriously, though. You'll be fine. And, hey, sleep on the bed. It's shitty but its gotta be better than a car, right?"

"Yeah," Patrick mumbles. His mother would probably have a fit if she saw him take the bed, but it's been a long day and he just wants it to be over. Xander curls up on the chair with a quilt and a comic, clicking the main light off as Patrick crawls under the covers. He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

The fierce need to piss wakes him up a few hours later. He stumbles to his feet, biting back a curse as he cracks his toes against a stray shelf. He's not really sure where his glasses are and is blinder than all hell in the dark, fumbling to the general direction of the bathroom. When he's done, more awake than he wants to be, he cracks open the door to give himself light and sits heavily on the edge of the bathtub. He just needs to think. 

He's holding his head in his hands, rubbing at his temples with his thumbs. It's ridiculous how much he misses Pete hogging up his personal space right now, even though he knows that, logically, this is the safest place for him. It's just. Pete makes him feel safe. Makes him feel like he's home and wanted and loved, and he thrives off of it, whatever it is. He refuses to be the one to bring up the giant heart shaped elephant in the room because he's terrified of Pete laughing at him and breaking their thing off. He just doesn't want to fuck it up.

"Aren't you a pretty little treat?" There's a man in the doorway. He's all lean muscle in tight jeans and black t-shirt, bleach bottle blonde hair slicked back against his skull. The lines of his cheeks are prominent, and his eyes gleam even in the darkness. Patrick can only assume that this is Spike.

He says nothing, staring at the socks that he stole from Andy a week ago, waiting for Spike to move away far enough that he can get back to the fold out bed. Spike stays in place though, watching him carefully. Patrick squirms under the attention. He feels like he’s being eaten alive. Spike cocks his head, narrowing his eyes as he examines Patrick carefully. Suddenly, he snorts, and Patrick flinches at the sound.

"You and Harris? Bloody hell."

"No," Patrick says quickly. "Oh god, no."

"Right," Spike sneers, crossing his pale, pale arms over his chest. "What else would a Siren-"

Patrick is across the room, hand at Spike's throat, pressing him to the wall before he actually registers the movement. Spike's blue eyes go wide, mouth opening on a curse. Patrick presses it shut with his thumb, sinking the tip into the soft spot under the vampire's chin, leaving the pressure there as a warning.

"Don't say it," Patrick hisses. "You say a fucking word to anyone about it and I'll take you down faster than you can pull game face. Got it?" Patrick jams his thumb up again before letting loose. 

Spike sinks down against the wall, rubbing at his throat with one hand. Patrick tugs anxiously at his hair, smoothing it down, and shifts from foot to foot. It's been nearly an entire month since he's lost his cool, and he actually feels a little bad about the whole up-against-the-wall thing. Spike laughs, a quick burst, and straightens up.

"Like 'em with some fight," he says, but it's lighter than before. Measured. "So what, if you didn't sing your way into the boy wonder's pants, why're you here?"

"I'm here for protection," Patrick replies after a beat. "Also, I'm only half Siren, so if you try to pull anything, the weird thing in your head will still go off." It feels weird to say it out loud. It's like he's giving away a secret part of himself, which. Well. His mother would definitely have a fit if she could see him now. "I'm, um, going back to sleep. Try not to. Whatever."

Patrick shoulders past him, ignoring the cold as he passes by, and makes his way back to the fold out mattress, crawling under the covers. He feels a little shaky, exposed. He wants Pete like he wants a security blanket, and he falls asleep thinking about singing against the smooth, dark skin of Pete's throat.

\---

"You sure you boys don't want me to make you something to eat?" Buffy's mother asks again. Pete thumps his head on the kitchen table and groans. Joe kicks him in the shin, smiling up at the woman.

"We're fine, Mrs. Summers," he says. Pete sits up and looks over at the door for the thirtieth time in as many minutes, slumping in his seat when it doesn't open. He's sulking like a toddler and he knows it, but it's nearly noon and there's still no sign of Patrick. This is not on, okay? He just needs some reassurance. 

Andy is on the phone with Korean Tom Cruise, delaying their tour schedule for a few dates. Pete feels like shit about canceling- always does- but there's nothing else they can do about it right now. Not at the risk of the whatever it is hurting Patrick. 

The door opens, pouring in bright, cheery sunlight over the tile floor. Pete restrains himself from jumping up, but only just barely. Xander strolls in with the ease of someone who's been here hundreds of times before, balancing a large white box on one hand, chattering away to Willow who follows after him. Patrick trails in behind them, dressed in the same clothes as the night before with an added cap that reads _Sun Time Pizza_. He smiles at them, and he looks better than he had when he left, like he’s had a good night’s sleep.

"I brought doughnuts," Xander says, placing the box on the table. Joe digs in. Like a damn puppy, seriously. Pete pinches his side and steals the jelly-filled from him. 

Patrick settles in next to him, and Pete feels whole again. Like all his pieces are back into the right slots. He breaks the jelly-filled in half and shoves one side into his mouth before force-feeding the other side to Patrick. He laughs as Patrick splutters, batting at his hands. Somehow, Patrick manages to swallow down the doughnut, tongue flicking out to lick off the last of the jelly from Pete's fingertips.

Pete smirks and rubs his thumb over Patrick's reddened lower lip. He wants nothing more than to drag Patrick to the nearest empty room and show him exactly how much he had missed him, but Giles and Buffy are coming in through the door with the biggest pile of books Pete's ever seen, and that means it's study time. Pete reluctantly drops his hand, sneaking in a quick strawberry flavored kiss before looking up at the man in charge.

"I just play music," he whines as Giles thumps a large text in front of him. The book is as thick as his hand is wide, leather bound and ancient. It smells like something incredibly old, and when Pete flips it open dust flies up at him in a plume, making him sneeze.

"Pretend you're in college again," Andy says dryly next to him, already leaning into his own book, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Pete doesn't fail to notice that Willow's fluttered over to his side with her own book in hand. 

"We're looking for any likenesses," Giles says, scanning his stack of tomes. "Any sort of indication that point to what type of demon it is, or to what it may want with your singer."

"Any study tips?" Pete asks, reluctantly turning to the index.

"I like to reference the _Demonologist_ against all facts," Willow says, rifling through the stack to yank out the thickest book. "It's full of handy facts. Like-"

"I'm sure it is," Buffy says, cutting off a list of facts Pete's is probably happy to not know. Willow sinks into her seat and pouts. Andy pats her shoulder without looking up and she seems to cheer. It's ridiculous.

They settle down for a long session, Joe and Xander sprawling out on the living room floor with a book that opens to be nearly two feet across, talking occasionally to one another in hushed tones. Patrick has a magic book instead of a demon index, which Pete thinks is totally unfair, and he's chewing at his lower lip as he reads, eyes flicking back and forth across the page. It reminds Pete of nights spent in the Stumph basement tutoring him in English, and he feels nostalgic for a brief moment.

Giles has a white board set up on the counter with several dry erase markers lined up under it. He's already written everything that they've told him on it- green, female, serpent-like hair- and it's not nearly enough to fill up the whole thing. Pete is impressed by the organization, though. Maybe they actually are good at this whole demon hunting thing. Maybe there's hope.

Pete loses track of time as they pour over the books. He learns about Fyarl demons, about the mating habits of Mermaids- which, woah, he never needed to know _ever_ , oh god- and about the seven sorts of trans dimensional frog demons. That last one is pretty cool, if he does say so himself, but it doesn't really help with the Patrick-eating menace, which is kind of a major bummer.

When he finally reaches the end of the tome, he's tired and a little cranky and seriously, seriously _starving_. Joe is snoring in the living room, face to the page of his and Xander's book, and Xander is staring into space, mouth open, eyes half closed.

Andy and Willow are leaned together, murmuring to one another about spells and spider legs or something. Pete rolls his eyes. Of course. He draws the line at supporting any new found witchy habits Andy may pick up. No magic in the van, please. It's on its last leg as is.

Giles has added _attracted to sound_ and _enough power to command other demons_ to the white board, and Joe had added a helpful little doodle, but it remains otherwise blank. Pete is losing hope as they begin closing and re-stacking books.

Buffy's mother, like a saint, has been bringing them mug after unending mug of coffee, and Pete cheers when she appears in the doorway with two boxes of hot, delicious smelling pizza. His joy wakes Joe and snaps Andy's attention away from Willow, and he dives in first because he is so, so _starved_ and he might just waste away. 

Andy politely declines the pizza- he doesn't say the v-word, but Pete can see him recoiling from the gigantic chunks of meat on the slice of pizza Pete is shoving into his mouth- but he does accept the apple Buffy pulls from the fridge. Pete has never been so happy to be an omnivore.

Patrick picks at his slices as he continues to read the magic book, humming briefly when Pete nudges him. He looks up, eyes unfocused behind the smudged lenses of his glasses, and the possessive urge rises up through Pete again. Hell or high water, he's keeping Patrick safe.

"Is it wrap up time?" Buffy asks. She's looking at Giles, but she's obviously somewhere else, fidgeting in her seat. 

"I suppose," Giles replies. "We'll pick up tomorrow-" Buffy is already out the door, shouting a goodbye over her shoulder. "After your classes," Giles finishes lamely.

"Date night," Willow explains.

"How unsurprising." Giles begins to pick up the pile of gone-through-already books, tucking them away into a leather bag. "I'll keep watch on things. Maybe something will turn up over night."

The study group breaks up after that, Giles heading out first, leaving the unchecked books on the table in a neat stack. Willow invites Andy shyly back to her dorm to look over a few new spells, and they leave shortly after. Pete shares a look with Joe, and they both snort.

"Patrick, man, I have to work tonight," Xander says, digging through his pockets. "Spike's there, but you know. He's a big pussycat. All Britishy and no bite." He tosses his keys to Patrick with a lack of grace that even Pete's appalled by. "Don't let him eat all the Twinkies."

"Vampires eat Twinkies?" Patrick asks, eyebrows raised.

"Spike eats Twinkies," Xander replies with a what-can-you-do shrug. "Do you want an escort home or...?"

"I'll be fine," Patrick reassures him. Pete is going to make damn sure of that. Xander waves to them before setting off with a grim sort of determination. Pete spares a moment to be happy to not have a shitty day job.

"You ready to go back?" Pete asks when the door closes. Patrick tucks the book into his jacket pocket and looks at the plate of pizza that's gone cold. He wrinkles his nose, glasses hitching up higher.

"Yeah. Um. I guess I'll see you guys in the morning." He stands and Pete grabs him by the elbow, sinking his fingers into the soft denim of his jacket.

"Yeah, no. I'm coming with you." He's already up, reaching for his hoodie with his free hand. Patrick shakes him off and he feels like he's been punched.

"I kind of want to be alone." Patrick smiles weakly at him. Joe has made himself discreet, and Pete's glad because he doesn't want to throw a fit- well, another fit- in front of him. It's a little pathetic. 

"There's something after you," Pete says. "You shouldn't _be_ alone-"

"I'll be fine." There's a sharp edge to Patrick's voice, and Pete shrinks away from it like it's something dangerous. "I'll be fine," Patrick repeats softer. "Promise."

Pete's surprised when Patrick leans in, pressing an unusually tender kiss to the side of his mouth. He's not surprised enough to not hang on, though, and he does, wrapping his arms around Patrick's back like it will keep him there, like it will make things any better. Patrick's mouth is soft under his, his fingers curled in the old cotton of Pete's shirt. His cheeks have gone a soft pink by the time he pulls away. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says, and then he's gone.

Pete kicks the dining room table over.

\---

Patrick has always known what he is. His mother had never kept it hidden from him, and he appreciates it because it gave him something to hold onto. He was weird, yeah, but he had a reason to be, and that made a lot of difference to a scared little kid. He learned early on how to hide what he was- not that it was ever really hard- and how to control himself. It was like a strange sort of extra puberty that he would never under pain of death go through again, but he had done what he had to. He knows who he is and what he is, and it had always been fine.

And then Pete came along.

Patrick tugs at the sleeves of his jacket and looks up at the darkening sky. He just barely remembers the way to Xander's basement- places have all began to look similar to him, and Sunnydale is as small town as anywhere else- and he's got a weird feeling about going there without Xander, even though he has permission. He's not looking forward to seeing Spike, and he considers heading back to the Summers’ house, but the wards really are for the best, and he's already made it to the concrete steps, anyway.

The wards. Patrick places hand on the wooden doorframe and hisses, yanking it back. He's only half Siren and he has permission- Xander really needs to be more careful about who he invites in, seriously- but the spell is strong, and he can feel the buzz of _unwanted_ under his skin as he unlocks the door.

Spike is on the couch, boots on the coffee table, watching _Passions._ What a waste of a vampire. Patrick locks up, ignoring Spike's cool gaze on his back, and hangs his jacket on the rack, pulling the little magic book from his pocket.

"Have fun with the white hats?" Spike asks, a thick drawl to his voice. It grates on Patrick's frayed nerves and, really, he doesn't need an excuse to hit anything right now. "No? What a pity."

"Are you always this annoying, or am I special?" Patrick curls up on the big red chair Xander had slept on the night before, staring resolutely at the television. He won't give Spike the satisfaction. 

"You're a right treat." Spike says, leering. Patrick's not sure if it's meant to be sincere or an insult, so he keeps his mouth firmly shut. 

Whatever Spike's thoughts, they don't compare to his urge to watch bad soaps on the television, and the room lapses back into silence. Patrick passes the magic book between his hands and cracks it back open. He's hoping he can find a protection spell for Pete and Andy and Joe. Something to protect them from the demon. Something to protect them from him.

The thing about his race is that they don't actually kill. They're not malevolent. They just have a penchant for music and are prone to growing scales or feathers- depending on the strain, and Patrick's lucky to have missed that gene, thank god- in weird places. Sirens are peaceful, alright? The problem isn't that. 

The problem is that, when people hear them- hear _him_ \- sing full voice, they want to stay near. They want to throw themselves at their- _his_ \- feet and stay for eternity. They forget to eat, to drink, to sleep, to function, just waiting for orders. They still die, even if it's by their own stupidity. It's a weight that hangs heavy over Patrick's head, and he's spent so, so many hours practicing to keep himself at half voice all the time. The risk he's taking with Fall Out Boy is enormous.

The book in his hands smells like old magic. Strong magic. Patrick wonders if Willow has used it, if it's her power that's tickling up inside his brain and making his skin crawl. Most of the spells are in Latin, and Patrick never really studied the dead languages so he's having problems making heads or tails of them. He can make some out, though, and is marking the pages carefully. So far, he hasn't come across anything useful. It's a little disheartening. He's put his friends in danger and has no way of helping them.

Patrick doesn't realize he's singing softly to himself until he looks up and finds Spike staring at him, eyes a little unfocused. Patrick keeps up the steady melody, watching as Spike kneels, inching slowly towards the big red chair. There it is; the lackey, the follower. Demons are so easy, so susceptible. Patrick figures it has to be a defense mechanism of his kind, a way to fight without fighting. 

Spike's bloodless hands touch his legs tentatively, long fingers on denim. Patrick swallows and switches the soft song. It's wordless, but words mean nothing when he's already got control of Spike's mind. One pale hand slides up his jeans, fingers sprawling wide against his thigh. Spike's still staring at him, open, waiting. Patrick feels a little sick. 

He's not really telling Spike what to do, not giving him the order to slip his cold fingers under the hem of his shirt, not forcing him to press his mouth to the top of his knee. He's just. Suggesting. Letting him know that it's good to touch, to want to touch. Spike's hands go for his belt, deft little fingers working it open quickly. Patrick thinks of Pete and stops singing suddenly, throat closing up as Spike's eyes clear. The vampire snarls and launches himself across the room, clutching at his overshirt.

"Keep your sodding mind tricks to yourself," he spits. He's halfway between human face and game face, the confusion in his baby blues too much for Patrick to look at.

"I'm sorry," Patrick says. He means it, too. He's never. He doesn't use his voice- his power- like that. Never. It was like he was watching himself from the outside, and he has no idea how he let himself go so far.

"Don't need you in my brain," Spike barrels on. "Bad enough I have this bloody chip. Don't need some Siren brat pressing buttons."

Patrick doesn't offer another apology, even if he feels it; just listens to Spike rant at him. He can't imagine having his nature stolen away. When Spike calms down, he sinks back onto the couch, hands balled into loose fists on his knees, strong jaw tight.

"I'm sorry," Patrick says again.

"Yeah, well. Keep your namby-pamby feelings to yourself and stay out of my head," Spike sneers, but Patrick knows a thank you when he hears one. 

They don't talk again, and Patrick makes an effort to keep quiet. He doesn't want any more accidents, thanks. He's zoning out, staring at the wall, when Xander bursts in. Patrick can smell the pizza grease from across the room, but he smiles anyway, glad to have a distraction, and waves a hand in greeting.

"You," Xander says, pointing a finger at Spike. "What did I say about feet on the table? Bad Spike. Bad."

"You gonna hit me with a rolled up newspaper, too?" Spike asks, voice razor sharp. He thunks his boots onto the ground though and scoots the smallest bit over to let Xander sit next to him. There's a second chair across the room. Patrick tries not to laugh. Of course.

"So, how'd you two play" Xander grabs a soda from the fridge before flopping down onto the couch, his knee bouncing off Spike's. It takes him a few seconds to jerk it away. 

"Like best mates," Spike says dryly. "Think I'll let him sing at my wedding." There's a barb in there, a low blow at Patrick's heritage, and Patrick tenses. He wasn't kidding about bringing Spike's unlife to an end. 

"Didn't take you for a Fall Out Boy sort of guy," Xander muses. Spike's eyebrows raise, recognition spreading across his sharp features.

"That's rich," he says, a cool little smirk at the edge of his mouth. "Do you sing yourself into a lot of fancy places?"

"Like your wedding would be fancy," Xander snorts. If he were a cat, Patrick's hackles would be rising. As it is, he feels tense to the bones, coiled up tight enough to hurt. Xander's in his way though, and Patrick doesn't think he could pull his punches if he got in the way. 

"At least I'm not on a chain," he says, and he feels the nasty grin on his face like a trophy. Spike snarls. Xander looks between them like he's missed something- understatement of the century- and takes a careful drink from his can.

"Do I want to ask?" His voice is high, and Patrick's so tired of hearing people talk. He wonders briefly if he could get away with wearing earplugs for the rest of eternity.

"No," he says. "Can we just, you know, sleep now?" The clock on the VCR says that it's just after midnight, and both Spike and Xander look a little incredulous. 

"Some bloody rockstar you are," Spike scoffs. Xander rolls his eyes.

"Move it, fangless." He yanks the cushion Spike's sitting on, and Spike ruefully stands, grumbling about useless human hours. "You could always go play outside."

"Sod off." He crosses the room though and grabs the long leather coat next to the door. "Sweet dreams and all that." Patrick goes a little boneless when he leaves, relieved. So much for a truce.

"Sorry about him," Xander says as he wrestles with the fold out. "He's cranky because we only feed him from a bag." He lets out a triumphant little sound as the mattress succumbs to his will.

"It's fine," Patrick replies. As long as Spike keeps his mouth shut, everything will be just fine.

\---

Andy runs careful fingers over the artifacts in Willow's make-up turned magic case. Everything is in muted shades of worn brown leather, handles and amulets and protective shields all branded with intricate carvings. The vegan side of him is ranting about cowhide and injustice, but the rest of him is awestruck by both the size and beauty of the collection. 

"It helps to have friends in with the big bads," Willow says brightly as she watches him. "Not that I'm a bad witch. I'm a good witch! But the bad guys have all the good stuff, and I'm rambling. Oopsie." Andy grins and taps the backing of his labret against his teeth. 

Willow is cute in a girl-next-door sort of way. She's close to his height, all fuzzy yellow sweater and sunny disposition, her skin a soft, soft white. Her hair is vibrantly red, cropped close to the soft line of her round jaw, and Andy kind of wants to touch it.

"What can you do?" He asks instead. Willow brightens, if at all possible.

"I can levitate stuff and conjure rain and fire, and, oh! I can make stuff!" She's bouncing on the balls of her feet, eager. Andy stifles a small laugh. "Wanna see?"

"Sure." He sits on the closest bed, kicking his sandals off so he can cross his legs under himself. 

Willow closes her eyes, mouthing words Andy can't quite hear. The desk light flickers for a moment, and a soft breeze stirs up somewhere behind Andy's shoulders. It lifts Willow's hair around her face, blowing it back as she keeps up the spell. She's holding her hand out, palm upward, and a small, blue ball of light sits on it, growing and changing shape until it goes red and solid. Willow peeks open one eye and cheers, handing the apple over to Andy with a flourish.

It's solid, the skin shiny and waxy as he turns it under the light, firm in his fingers. It smells right, and at Willow's prompting he takes a bite. The flavor is rich, juice sliding down over his chin. He wipes his wrist over his mouth to clear it away, chasing the taste. Willow's magic is powerful. _She's_ powerful.

"That's pretty impressive," he says after swallowing. Willow beams.

"I do my best." She settles down onto the other bed. A small pause follows, and Andy clears his throat.

"Do you have any idea about the thing that's after Patrick?" He asks. He's worried. There's no real way to not be. But he's the one that's got to keep it together, that has to play it cool for the kids. Joe's the baby, and Pete's. Pete. And Patrick, for all that he's playing it off, is shaken, tight around the edges. If he loses it, too, they'll all fall apart.

"No," Willow says and frowns. "Oh! Thought. We could do a spell. A demon location spell!"

"You're easily excitable, huh?" Andy grins, watching the blush rise up on her cheeks. "What do we do?"

Willow heads back to her magic chest, rummaging through. She comes out with a small book, sitting on the mattress next to Andy. The soft cotton of her red pants tickles against Andy's bare shins, and her arm brushes against his as she flips pages.

"Here." She looks up, pointing at a spell excitedly. Her eyes go wide, as if she's just realizing how close she is to him. A bright fall of hair frees itself, and Andy tucks it behind her ear gently, fingertips lingering on her soft jaw. "Um. Maybe we can do the spell in the morning?"

"Yeah," Andy says softly, stroking his thumb over the smooth curve of her cheek. "That sounds like a plan."

\---

Pete is at the door. Patrick's not sure of _why_ Pete's at the door, or how he even managed to find his way to the Harris’ basement, but. There he is, pushing brazenly past Spike as he barges in- _human_ , Patrick thinks before he can stop himself, _he doesn't need permission_ \- and throws his arms around Patrick in a suffocating hug. Despite himself, Patrick smiles into Pete's ugly hoodie and hugs back.

"Isn't that touching?" Spike closes the door, careful of the dim sunlight just starting to come in through the bleak clouds, and stares them down. Patrick flips him off without letting go. Pete’s warm and safe, and Patrick presses his face to Pete’s shoulder just because he can. 

"Is that the pet vampire?" Pete asks when he pulls back. His arm stays wrapped around Patrick's shoulders, solid and steady, and he leaves no room for Patrick to move away. Not that Patrick really plans on it, anyway.

"Is that the pet monkey?" Spike pulls a face. Patrick snorts, because. Well. Good point.

"You're not really scary for a vampire," Pete says. "You're actually kind of lame." Patrick can almost see Spike weighing the pros and cons of attacking him. Apparently the payoff isn't worth the pain because he wanders back off to the couch with a wave of his hand. 

"Why are you here?" Patrick lets Pete drag him to the ground, sprawling out on the dirty floor. Xander is at Shitty Job number seven eighty-six- his words, not Patrick's- which means he was alone in the basement with Spike. Again. Needless to say, he doesn't mind the added company. "And where are Joe and Andy?"

"I'm here to collect you." Pete snuggles into his side, and Patrick bites back a stupid grin. "Andy and Willow- who have both been rocking _totally had awesome sex last night_ vibes- want to do a demon locator spell. Magic! We're moving up in life."

"Won't that be exciting," Spike drawls form the couch. Patrick flinches.

"No one asked you, dude." Pete presses his face to the curve of Patrick's neck, nuzzling like a puppy. "I ran. We totally have time for a quickie."

"I can hear you," Spike says tightly.

"Still didn't ask you." Pete's grin is big, toothy. Patrick's traitorous heart flutters. Stupid god damn Pete Wentz. "So?" Patrick looks from Pete's open face to the tight ball of Spike on the couch, considering.

"I guess I could use a shower," he finally says. Pete whoops and nearly jumps to his feet, hauling Patrick up after him. Patrick laughs, ignoring Spike's glare as he's led to the bathroom. Serves him right. 

The door is already closed behind his back, doorknob digging into his spine, Pete pressed tight to his front. He's still laughing when Pete kisses him, hot and dirty, and Patrick grabs him at the waist, tucking his fingers into the belt loops of Pete's jeans.

Pete tastes like too much coffee, bitter, tongue sliding wet over Patrick's, teeth biting at his lower lip. He's always all hands, fingers and palms restless against Patrick's arms and chest and shoulders, like he can't decide where his favorite part is. It amazes Patrick that he knows this, that he has so many memories that they begin to blur together into a montage of awesome.

And hot. Can't forget about hot.

Patrick fists a hand of Pete's greasy hair- they really do need showers, gross- and pulls him in tighter. He feels like he's going to go straight through either Pete or the door, he's pressed so tight against them, and he's definitely going to have a nasty bruise right over the waist of his underwear, but even that doesn't make him want to move away.

Pete removes one hand from Patrick's waist and fumbles blindly behind himself for the shower door, opening it with a bang, The television volume ratchets up dramatically. Something falls as Pete searches for the taps, echoing off the walls. He must find them, because the soft sound of water hitting tile fills the room.

"Naked," Pete says, mouth slick and puffy, eyes dark. "Get naked."

Patrick doesn't fight when Pete yanks at his shirt; just lifts his arms and does his best to suck in his round little tummy. Hot fingertips paint a path down his chest, Pete grinning at the just-starting-to-grow hair there. Patrick rolls his eyes and shoves Pete's t-shirt up to his armpits, spreading his fingers out over the ugly sprawl of ink under Pete's navel. 

Pete grabs the scruff of his own shirt and eagerly yanks it up and off, tossing it into the sink, trying to step out of his shoes at the same time. It's kind of a spectacularly failed attempt, but Patrick's going to let it slide, too busy undoing his finicky belt. 

"You are still overdressed," Pete whines, adding his hands into the mess trying to undo Patrick's fly. Patrick's concerned for a moment that Pete's going to just rip the buttons straight off, which is a bad, bad, bad idea. He’s running low on clothes as is, and he’s not desperate enough to borrow the monstrosities Xander’s offered him. 

Somehow, they manage to get Patrick out of his jeans, and he's tenting his boxers kind of really obviously, the head of his cock peeking out of the slit. Good thing Pete's too shameless to care. Pete shucks out of his own jeans fast enough that Patrick feels like he should be jealous. Not that he's got the right to be.

Patrick isn't surprised to see that Pete's left off his underwear; he never packs enough to last, and he's slutty enough to not care when he does run out. He fits his thumbs into the hollows of Pete's hips, rubbing at the soft skin there.

"Shower time?" Pete asks, eyebrows raised hopefully. Patrick laughs.

"Shower time," he agrees. Pete scrambles into the shower stall, dick bouncing ridiculously against his stomach. Patrick takes a slow breath and shoves his boxers down. _It's just Pete_ , he tells himself as he steps into to the hot spray of water. _He's seen you naked a hundred times and still wants to fuck you. It's okay._

Pete looks good wet because Pete always looks good. Patrick thinks that he looks like a drowned rat in comparison, hair plastered down to his head, sideburns dark against his jaw, skin going pink, pink, red under the steam. Pete doesn't seem to mind, getting up into Patrick's personal space before Patrick can even close the door. He presses his hips against Patrick's, his cock rubbing hot and solid against Patrick's, and _oh_. That is never not awesome.

Pete sucks at the thin skin under Patrick's adams' apple, nipping at it gently. He's going to leave a bruise, and the thought makes Patrick's cock jerk. He steadies himself with a hand against the wall, swallowing as Pete abandons his neck, licking a smooth line up to his ear.

"Sing," he breathes out, hot and damp, nose pressed to the hollow behind Patrick's ear. Patrick tenses, fingers digging into Pete's hip. "I want to hear you." Patrick closes his eyes and sings a weak line of one of their own songs, turning his head to let Pete suck at the space right under his jaw.

Pete kisses his temple, lips sliding over the wet strands of his hair. Patrick's heart is thumping in his chest, unease settling into him as he keeps singing. It's what Pete wants; what Pete always wants. It's all that he's good for, all that makes him matter to Pete at all. He chokes off in the middle of a line, shaking free of Pete's arms. 

He drops to his knees, tile grating too hard against the bone, wrapping rough fingers around Pete's solid thighs, digging his fingers in. He presses his lips to the smooth span of Pete's stomach just to have something else to do with his mouth, to keep himself quiet. Pete tastes like clean water, the remnants of sweat lingering in the background. Patrick tries to focus on chasing that instead of on the sting at the back of his eyes.

Pete doesn't pull his hair, but he does run his fingers through it over and over, a nervous sort of tic, still except for the shake of his thighs as Patrick mouths at his cock. It's always so strange to see him like this, and Patrick takes pleasure in knowing it's him that makes this happen, that he's the reason. Pete whines high in his throat when Patrick sucks the head into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the salty skin. It's an ugly sound that bounces off the walls, but Patrick wants to hear it for the rest of his life. He is set to go, ready to give Pete the best head _ever_ , but Pete tugs at his hair gently, making him look up, lips still wrapped around Pete's dick. Pete groans and Patrick swallows the vibrations.

"Gotta get back soon," he chokes out. "Oh my god, I hate myself for being responsible." He thrusts the tiniest bit into Patrick's mouth, eyes glazed over. "Fuck me." Patrick's dick jumps. He pulls off with a pop, hot water running into his eyes. Yeah. He can totally do that.

There's girly smelling body wash in the corner, and Patrick winces because it's going to burn, but Pete's already turned himself around, bracing his hands against the slick wall, wiggling his ass like an idiot. Patrick bites the curve of one cheek and runs his slick fingers down the curve of Pete's spine.

He's still on his knees so when the tip of his middle finger slides into Pete, he's got the best seat in the house. Pete moans loudly- attention whore, Patrick thinks fondly- and it echoes.

\---

"Oh dear god, they're having naughty time in my shower." 

"'m sure they'd let you watch. Maybe you'll pick up some tips."

" _In my shower._ "

\---

Patrick twists a second finger in, licking a stripe up the strong back of Pete's thigh. He crooks his fingers up, and Pete presses back to meet him, the soft breath he lets out almost tangible. Patrick sucks on his lower lip, watching his fingers sliding easily in and out. It never stops being hot.

"Fuck, Stump. Let's go." Pete's a little breathless, voice low and rough. Patrick sucks a kiss to the base of Pete's spine before pulling back and climbing awkwardly to his feet. 

He says a silent apology to Xander as he slicks his dick with the girly soap, biting back a groan at the touch of his own hand. He's not as shameless as some. Like he knows, Pete wiggles his ass again and it's still ridiculous, but its also kind of hot, and Patrick’s maybe a little shaky when he grabs Pete's hips and lines up.

He's not the first, and sometimes he wonders if he'll be the last, to be inside Pete, but the _hot, hot, tight_ around his cock makes it easier to pretend that it doesn't matter. Pete hisses as Patrick bottoms out, leaning back to press his wet shoulders to Patrick's chest. He loops an arm behind Patrick's neck, rolling his hips. 

It's slow, steady, the steam from the hot water curling around them. Patrick lets Pete lead him, his thrusts shallow. Pete's head is tipped back, the long line of his throat bared, and Patrick wants to bite it, to mark it and make it his own. He snaps his hips a little viciously, curling an arm around Pete's waist. Property of Patrick fucking Stump. Back off.

Pete wraps hand around his own dick, elbow slamming against the shower door as he jerks off. He whines when Patrick leans him forward with the press of one hand, fucking him hard, hips hitting hard enough to hurt in the best way possible. Patrick feels Pete's stomach tightening under his arm, knows the sounds he's making means he's close. He doesn't mean to do it, but he finds himself singing nonsense against the back of Pete's neck, lips pressed the bump of his vertebra. Pete comes with a choked noise, going stiff under Patrick's arms.

Guilt wraps itself around Patrick's insides, and he jerks his hips forward too hard, nearly knocking them both off balance. His orgasm is like a surprise, and he doesn't meet Pete's eyes as he pulls out, or when they wash up.

"Hey," Pete says when they're dressed, the steam inside the room slowly fading away. "Are- We're cool, right?" Patrick feels guilty all over again. Fuck Pete and fuck the demon and fuck himself. This isn't fair.

"Yeah," Patrick says, and it sounds weak even to his own ears. "Just, you know. Worried." Relief washes over Pete's face, and he's back to normal, too big smile and an arm over Patrick's shoulders as he throws open the door with a rush of steam.

Spike and Xander are sitting on the couch, _Days of Our Lives_ on the television. Spike leers at them and Pete fires one back, curling his fingers in the still wet ends of Patrick's hair. Patrick has the decency to blush, reaching for the discarded hat on the coffee table. 

"Well," Xander says, voice high and a little nervous. "Good morning?"

"Great morning," Pete verifies, pressing a smacking kiss to Patrick's cheek. It's moments like this when Patrick forgets that they're not actually together.

\---

Joe is awesome. He is the awesome king of Awesome Mountain in Awesomeville. He's awesome like Doritos and tennis ball bombs and weed. He is- annoying himself, actually. Still undeniably awesome, though.

He spent all of last night going over the books- okay, _book_ , whatever- Giles had left, and their Patrick-eater is currently staring up at him with her creepy yellow eyes and wiggly looking hair and a _name_. Joe feels rightfully accomplished and a little sheepish because he knows this demon. Kind of, anyway. 

Abyzou is a Jewish demon, and while Joe didn't really do the synagogue thing when he was growing up, his mother had had a book of demons in her collection and he'd read it a few times as punishment. He can only vaguely remember Abyzou, mostly because he'd never been threatened with her particular brand of vengeance. He's halfway to calling his mom to verify it when Andy shouts up the stairs for him.

When Joe gets to the dining room, Pete and Patrick are wrestling on the floor, Patrick's arm around Pete's windpipe, Pete's knee in Patrick's stomach, and there's a steamy, smoky vampire in the most badass coat Joe's ever seen standing over them, rooting for blood. The things for the spell are on the table, sprawled out over a town map. Andy and Willow are chatting about it, moving things around in preparation.

"I found the demon," Joe says, waving the book. Pete and Patrick scramble up, crowding around him, Andy shoving in behind them. "Abyzou." Spike snorts. Patrick glares up at him, and he raises his hands, the corner of his mouth curled unpleasantly.

"I'm just saying, with all the gooze and the ick, I should get a clothing salary," Buffy says as she walks into the kitchen, Giles next to her.

"Even if the council still backed us, that is a ridiculous request," he replies, running a hand through his hair. 

"Joe found the demon," Willow cuts in. Giles looks up, startled like he hadn't realized they had arrived yet. He holds a hand out for the book and Joe hands it over readily, proud of himself. His awesome is so far beyond awesome.

"Abyzou," Giles says absently. "That's rather odd."

"I thought so, too, dude." Joe shrugs when his band mates look at him. "Jewish demon. Goes after pregnant chicks, mostly." He blinks and Pete's on his knees, ear pressed to a blushing, flailing Patrick's bare belly, Patrick's t-shirt clutched in his hand.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Patrick asks, voice high. "Get the fuck off."

"Are you pregnant?" Pete spreads his free hand over Patrick's waistline, ignoring the volley of weak blows Patrick's raining down on his head. Joe laughs almost hard enough to fall over. Pete glares at him. "Totally not the weirdest thing that's happened. Is it mine? Can we name it Chicago?"

"I'm not pregnant you idiot," Patrick snaps, yanking his shirt back down. "I'm still a dude, uterus free and _not a chick_."

"No baby Chicago?" Pete looks kind of heartbroken. It's sad, and Joe kind of wishes Patrick really was pregnant. It'd be cool to have a baby with the band. He could teach it to play guitar if Patrick didn’t beat him to it. 

"Yeah, no little singin' bit?" Spike mocks. The tic in Patrick's jaw means he's going from regular pissed to choke someone pissed, and Joe is not in the mood to save anyone right now, thanks.

"So!" Willow claps her hands, startling everyone into looking at her. Joe's thankful. "Patrick's not pregnant. What else is there?"

"It says here that Abyzou claims responsibility for throat obstruction and deafness." Giles squints down at the small text, frowning. "Perhaps that's the reason?" Then, Spike laughs. It echoes, and the room goes silent.

"She's pissed," he says around a laugh. "Wants to rip your pretty little throat out."

"What do you know about her?" Giles asks, stepping between Patrick and Spike discreetly. Joe feels himself bristling, closing in next to Patrick the same way Pete and Andy are. Spike knows something they don't and he's holding back. Joe sort of hates him.

"She's a cousin of Sirens," Spike says, watching Patrick with narrowed eyes. "Can't have nibblets of her own, so she has a time of strangling newborns. Even _I_ never ate _babies_."

"There's people eating babies?" Xander holds up a box of danishes, poking his head in through the kitchen door. He is Joe's favorite person in the whole wide world.

"Apparently," Giles replies dryly, setting the book back onto the table.

"Is it spell time?" Pete shoves a doughnut into his mouth, snagging one for Patrick, too. "Are we gonna go play kick ass with the baby strangler?" Patrick only half-heartedly bats at Pete's hand as Pete tries to feed him. 

"Looks like it," Andy says, adjusting the map on the table, smoothing out the creases. He's got the same look on as when he's figuring out a tricky rhythm, and Joe's amusement dwindles. If Andy's worried, they should all be worried.

Joe sits on the floor on Patrick's free side, pressed up against his legs. They're not as close as they used to be- between Patrick's epic not-romance with Pete and touring and exhaustion, they've stopped talking as much- but still. Patrick's _theirs_ , and nothing is going to take him away without a hell of a fight.

Willow and Andy work around each other pretty easily, handing one another ingredients that Joe can't place, mixing and murmuring to one another as they pass a mortar and pestle between them. It's kind of cool in an entirely weird way, and Joe spares a moment to wonder if Andy's going to add Wicca powers to his vegan powers- they have to have super powers to avoid the tasty goodness of cheese, right? Their van's going to be _awesome._

Willow smudges the ground up powder in the mortar over the crystal, making the shiny surface go dull, while Andy reads the incantation written in Willow's delicate hand out loud. Willow dangles the crystal over the map, the thin fishing line it's tied to wrapped around her fingers. Joe can feel Patrick squirming next to him as the crystal spins, and he reaches out, wrapping an arm around the nearest leg. Patrick smiles down at him, settling down a little. It feels like old times. 

It's cool and a little surreal watching the crystal spin smaller and smaller circles, shifting this way and that, until finally coming to a sudden halt, dropping to the table like a dead weight. Willow opens one eye, looking down at it, and frowns.

"That's here," she pouts, touching the map around the point of the crystal. Andy frowns too. "We did everything right. It should be pointing out the nearest demon."

"Is it Spike?" Xander asks, ignoring the vampire's glare. Andy shakes his head.

"We made sure to cancel out vampires," he says, staring down at the map like it'll tell him what went wrong. Patrick goes stiff under Joe's arm. 

"Not my mojo mucking up the proceedings," Spike says, staring pointedly at Patrick. Joe presses in closer. Vampires are assholes. "You got something to say, singer boy?"

"Look, I don't know what your fucking problem is, but you need to back the fuck off." Pete's halfway across the room, fists clenched. 

"Ask him," Spike goads, stepping up into Pete's space. He's only taller than Pete by a few inches, but he's got a century or so of confidence that makes him seem taller. "He's got a juicy little secret." Joe winces as Pete lashes out, fist connecting with the sharp line of Spike's cheekbone. 

Time seems to slow as Spike's human face slips away, replaced with ridges and fangs, and Joe bristles. Knowing Spike's a vampire and _seeing_ Spike as a vampire are two different things. Andy leaps over the table, jerking Pete back by the elbows. Spike howls in pain, clutching his head, staggering back like he's been hit again.

There's yelling from all sides, but mostly from Pete, and Patrick is still unnaturally stiff at Joe's side, hands balled into white-knuckled fists. Pete jerks against Andy's hold, and Buffy aims a stake at Spike, waiting. 

"Pete," Patrick says softly, and the room goes silent. The fight drains from Pete as he turns to look at him. "I need to talk to you."

Very carefully, Andy lets Pete go, keeping himself between him and Spike. Thankfully, Pete just follows Patrick out of the kitchen door, his confusion clear. Joe wants to follow, to listen in, but he makes himself stay. Pete and Patrick have to sort their shit out on their own.

\---

Pete isn't really sure of what's going on. He follows Patrick up the stairs, into the bedroom he's been sharing with Joe and Andy. Patrick's not looking at him, fidgeting as he sits on the bed. He's been weird all day, and Pete doesn't really believe all of it is about Abyzou.

"Hey," Pete says, kneeling between Patrick's thighs. He rests his hands on them, ducking his head to meet Patrick's eyes. "You okay?" Patrick laughs, and it's bitter. Hollow. Pete's stomach clenches. "You know you can tell me whatever right? Like, I'm not going to go anywhere."

Patrick pulls his legs up onto the bed, shutting Pete out. Pete stays on the floor, mouth firmly shut. He knows when to push and now isn't that time. The silence feels too heavy, his heart beating too loud in his chest. He's terrified.

"I-" Patrick presses his cheek to his knees, eyes closed, glasses pressing a red spot into his temple. He looks so small, and Pete wants to wrap around him and be a buffer between him and the world. "I'm not normal."

"You're not having your big gay freakout right now, right? Cause you're kind of a year late on that." Pete flinches. Tact isn't something he's really known for. Patrick laughs again. Pete's heart feels like it's breaking.

"I wish," Patrick mumbles. "My dad met my mom on a cruise." It's sort of a non sequitur, and all Pete can do is blink up at him. Patrick doesn't open his eyes. "My dad met my mom on a cruise, and he heard her sing and decided he had to marry her or die." Pete understands Mr. Stumph on a level so grand it can't possibly exist. "I was born six months later."

"You were a preemie?" Pete asks. That can sort of make a little sense. Patrick shakes his head.

"I was actually a month late," he says. "They had to cut me out." Pete's never called himself a scholar, but even he knows that it takes babies nine months to spawn or whatever. "I started singing when I was three. It drove my dad crazy." Patrick fingers are clenching and unclenching around his knees. It takes a lot of effort on Pete's part to not grab them. "I think he hated me."

It's hard to believe anyone could ever hate a singing, adorable, three year old version of Patrick. It's hard to believe anyone could hate any version of Patrick at all. 

"I didn't cry if I wanted something," Patrick continues, picking at the frayed legs of his jeans. "I'd sing and sing and sing until he gave in. I got so good I could get cookies for breakfast with just four notes. Mom doesn't blame me for him leaving but..." He shrugs, glasses toppling off to land on the floor. He doesn’t move to pick them up.

Fuck respecting personal space. Pete crawls up onto the bed next to him, pulling Patrick into a hug. Patrick is so fucking small in his arms, face to Pete's shoulder, elbows and knees sharp, still all cramped up. 

"I'm like my mom," Patrick says, voice muffled by the cotton of Pete's shirt. "I'm a demon; a Siren." Pete wants to laugh, because he knows Patrick inside and out, but Patrick doesn't look up and laugh, doesn't grin and punch him in the shoulder or call him a sucker. In fact, he's perfectly still, tight and tense and hanging onto Pete's shirt for dear life.

Things seem to make sense if he thinks about it. The smooth, effortless way Patrick gets what he wants from them, from extra gummy bears to chord progressions, the way Pete's heart stops every time Patrick opens his mouth. Something like sadness curls in Pete's chest and he wiggles free of Patrick's fisted hands.

"Is." He stops, unsure of what he's trying to say. Patrick's eyes look wet, but he's not crying, too proud to let Pete see him do it. Pete looks away from him, staring instead at the slowly revolving ceiling fan. "Were you ever going to tell us?" He wants to say _me_. _Were you ever going to tell me?_ But he can't. Not right now.

"No," Patrick says softly. Pete pushes up from the bed and fights back the urge to start screaming and breaking things. Patrick stays put, staring at the ground. He looks so small, so pale. Pete feels sick.

"Did you-"

"I only sang when you asked me to," Patrick says, like he knows the inside of Pete's head. He does, for the most part. Always has. The corners of his mouth turn up into a nasty smile. "I don't really know how to say no to you."

"Am I-" Pete cuts himself off, staring down at his hands. Now or never, he guesses. "Did it mean anything? Me and you?" Patrick closes his eyes, hugging his knees tighter to his chest. 

"I could have made you," Patrick says. "I can make anyone want to keep me, but I don't." He sounds tired. Sad. "I- I wouldn't do that. Not to anyone. Not to you. Everything between us was real."

It shouldn't make Pete's heart stutter, but it does. He folds down onto the floor in front of the bed and presses his forehead to Patrick's shins. He wants to be here forever like this, with Patrick. Even if it might not be real.

"Sing," he says. He doesn’t clarify, but Patrick already knows what he means. 

"No." Patrick pulls into himself, hiding his face. It's like a scene from nearly two years ago, and Pete grins. This is still Patrick- was always Patrick. Pete just knows him better now. 

"I want to hear it."

"It can kill you," Patrick says darkly.

"Don't care. I trust you not to explode my brain or whatever." Pete tugs at the frayed bottoms of Patrick's jeans, pulling until Patrick lets his legs drop, thighs open wide enough to let Pete sit between them. Patrick stares at him for a long, tense moment, eyes squinted to see properly. He opens his mouth but shuts it again quickly. "Hey, no. Let me hear it."

Pete has listened to Patrick sing hundreds of times, but what comes out now is nowhere near anything he's ever heard before. It's smooth and rich, coiling around him like a blanket, sinking into his skin; nonsense words lost on him as he leans in closer to feel the melody. Patrick's mouth is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and he wants to curl up on the floor and stay there forever, just listening. 

His heart feels like it's going to burst straight out of his chest, overfilled with love and adoration. Patrick leans down, touching Pete's cheek with gentle fingertips. He looks sad. The sweet melody falls away, and the room lapses into silence.

It's like a physical blow. Pete doubles over, clutching his chest. He's emptied out, everything good inside of him gone, leaving him behind in the hollowed out shell. If he could just get Patrick to sing again, things would be better. They'd be right, and it wouldn't feel like he was dying. If he could just get Patrick to sing-

"Pete," Patrick says softly, voice raw at the edges. "Come back. Don't let it win." He combs his fingers through Pete's hair, silent.

Pete leans into the hand and tries to pull himself back together. He doesn't realize he's closed his eyes until he opens them to find Patrick watching him carefully, face drawn. It's a struggle, but Pete manages to shove at the ache in his chest until it's nothing but a dull throb under his skin, a reminder instead of a force. 

"That's. Dude." He climbs up onto Patrick's lap, wrapping his arms around him. He's solid and real and _Patrick_. "You're."

"I never thought you'd be speechless," Patrick says against Pete's shoulder. The swell in Pete's chest is still there, but it's familiar. All him.

"Shut up," Pete says. "When we kill the demon, I'm totally taking you on a date."

"You're a freak." Patrick's face is still pressed to Pete's chest, but Pete can feel him smiling. 

\---

"So, why does Abyzou want Patrick?" Pete asks after they explain Patrick's. Condition. Patrick flinches at the thought.

"You said she's a cousin to Sirens, right?" Willow asks Spike. 

"Distant." Spike's fiddling with the crystal, flipping it idly over his knuckles. "Pissed off a big bad. Lost her voice."

"Dude." Joe sits up, staring unblinkingly at Patrick. Patrick squirms. "She's jealous."

"And you're baked." Patrick tugs at his cap, pulling it lower over his forehead. He really wishes they would all stop staring at him.

"No, like. It makes sense." Joe flips through the book in his lap and scans the page. "Throat obstruction. She, like, strangles people too, not just babies." Spike sighs wistfully, flipping the crystal again.

"So, she wants to get rid of you because you can sing?" Xander asks the room in general. Patrick shrugs, but everyone else makes noises of agreement. Looks like he's been outvoted. "That kind of sucks."

"So how do we kill it?" Buffy perks up, looking from Giles to Joe and back again.

"Solomon hung her by her hair at a temple," Joe answers. He shrugs at the curious glances Pete and Andy give him. "Dude, still Jewish." 

\---

Pete's not really stoked about playing. The night is cool, and they're in front of a synagogue, and Patrick kind of looks like he's going to barf. Buffy, Xander, Spike and Willow are spread out around the synagogue with their weapons of choice.

"You don't have to do this," Pete says, pressed up tight against Patrick's side. His bass is digging into his hip, but he can't really bring himself to care. He wants to crawl into Patrick and never come out.

"Not the stupidest thing I've ever done." Patrick grins weakly at him. "Buffy's a pro, right?"

"Yeah." Joe throws an arm over Patrick's shoulder, Andy close to Patrick's back, all of them a tight ring of protection. Fuck with one of them, fuck with all of them. "No one's gonna get you, dude."

"That's touching, really," Spike hollers from his position by the doors, "but could you get on with it already?" Pete raises his middle finger in salute. He sort of likes Spike if he ignores the whole whiny undead thing.

"Ready, dudes?" Andy asks as he settles down at his kit. He's fidgeting. Nervous. Pete grits his teeth and nods. Now or never. 

Patrick takes a breath and steps up to his mic. If this were any other time, Pete would feel ridiculous, all dressed up and ready to play to absolutely no one, but right now he's glad no one can see him sweating it out. Patrick breathes out his first note, and they're off. 

They're playing _Saturday_. It feels appropriate in ways Pete really doesn't want to think about. The notes are familiar, and Pete's playing on autopilot, eyes on the sky, waiting for Abyzou to come down and steal Patrick away from them. He tightens his fingers around the neck of his bass and forces himself to focus the music. If this is their last song, they better make it fucking _rock_.

The first warning is from Xander, who is stationed behind the bushes surrounding the synagogue. He raises his axe over his shoulder, alerting the others, and Pete feels his heart stutter. Game's on. No going back now. He presses up against Patrick just to know he's there, that he's still theirs for now.

It smells like tepid water, the air thick and stagnant with it. The sky is dark, but the giant fluttering shape coming toward them is even darker, great tendrils of blackness curling around the figure as it floats closer. Spike whoops in excitement. A screech from Joe's amp makes them wince as he cuts off suddenly, palm against the frets to stop the sour note from continuing. Job's done. Time to hide.

The reverb of bass and guitar smacking down onto pavement is vicious, and Abyzou shrieks, the noise splitting the silence wide open. Joe and Pete nearly break Patrick as they yank him up the synagogue steps, Andy hot on their heels. Spike shoves the four of them through the doors before stepping up as guard. 

Inside the synagogue is nearly pitch dark. Patrick is tense, arms still tight under Pete and Joe's tight grips, vibrating. Andy's already at the window, watching. Pete reluctantly lets go of Patrick to crowd in next to him, rocking up onto his toes to see better.

Abyzou is _floating_ , green skin glowing in the streetlights. She screeches again, jaw unhinged unnaturally. It's earth shaking, and Pete's crashing to the ground, Patrick heavy on top of him as the giant stained glass window shatters above them.

"You guys okay?" Joe calls out after a moment. He's helping Andy pick glass out of his unruly hair, hissing as he nicks his finger on a large piece.

"Yeah," Pete grunts out, rolling carefully to his knees. Patrick's a little dude, but he's heavy, and Pete's back feels like he's been stung by a hoard of bees. He rubs at the back of his head, looking up to mumble a quick thanks to Patrick. A bright streak of blood is smeared under Patrick's jaw, wrapping around his throat, and Pete panics. "Fuck, Rick, are you-" The blood smears as Pete runs frantic fingers over Patrick's neck, searching out the wound.

"I'm fine." Patrick hisses as Pete's thumb swipes over the cut. It's long, right at the base of his ear, but shallow, bleeding sluggishly as Patrick tips his head up. Ignoring Patrick's grumbling about him being gross, Pete spits into his hand and scrubs the blood away with his thumb. "Do you feel better now?"

"Much," Pete replies with as much fake cheer as he can muster. The blood’s already drying into rusty smears under Patrick’s jaw, and it makes Pete’s stomach turn. 

The wall seems to shake as someone- Spike, if the sound of his cursing is anything to go by- is thrown into it. Andy and Pete share a quick glance before scrambling back up to the window frame, careful of the jagged edges of the window that are still intact. Out of the corner of his eye, Pete can see Joe dropping down next to Patrick, bumping their shoulders. Joe Trohman's a good man, Pete thinks as he tries to catch glimpses of Abyzou. They all are.

Buffy has a crossbow perched on her bent elbow, aiming steadily. Pete sees her eyes widen and, fuck. That can't be a good sign. He catches sight of three vampires closing in on Willow, feels Andy stiffen next to him. There's a burst of fire out of Willow's cupped palms, and she seems to be equal parts shocked and relieved as she races towards Xander at the other side of the yard.

"Come on," Spike shouts. "Play with the big boys." If his pulse weren't racing from fear, Pete might find it sweet. As is, he just watches as two of the three stunned vampires lurch towards the building. He sorely, sorely wishes that they were near a church with crucifixes. 

One of the vampires pauses, its brother already going hand to hand with Spike. He lifts his head, nose in the air like a bloodhound. Andy ducks first, but Pete is slow and maybe a little stupid, and the vampire catches sight of him as he's going down after. 

"Bad news?" Joe asks, scrambling to his feet. 

"Fucking shitty news." Pete's up and running for them as the vampire lunges through the window, boots pounding on the floor with an audible thump. 

He's taller than Pete and Patrick combined, wide at the shoulders, thick in the arms. Pete's taken down bouncers and security guards his size two at a time, but none of them had fangs or inhuman strength, so he's going to sit this one out for as long as he can, thanks. Apparently, the vampire doesn't share these feelings, advancing with lumbering, thick steps.

"Give us the singer," he says, voice rumbling past his fangs. Andy steps in front of Patrick at the same time Pete does. The vampire laughs. Pete tries to ignore the cold chill running down his spine.

"Yeah, no, we're good, thanks," he says instead, scanning the synagogue for any sort of weapon. The stake in his pocket feels like it is nothing but dead weight, useless and small. 

"You'll all go free if you just play nice," the vampire says, stepping forward. Pete and Andy hold their ground. 

"No deal." Pete has enough experience in bar fights to notice the change in the vampire's stance. He throws his weight back, knocking Patrick and Joe to the ground in a tangle as the vampire lunges for them. 

Andy ducks the vampire's hand, throwing a tight punch at its middle. The vampire stands strong, but Andy's quick and Pete's pissed, seeing red, and they're enough distraction for Joe to drag Patrick under the rows and rows of pews. Pete can hear them breathing, which means the vampire can _definitely_ hear them breathing, but they're out of sight and hopefully keeping some sort of move away from the battle.

Pain shoots up Pete's arm as the vampire catches his fist, squeezing. He shouts, kicking, throwing himself against the strong, solid body. Andy dodges the vampire's other fist, ramming his shoulder hard enough into the vampire's stomach to make him stagger back. Pete's fist throbs, the blood rush in his ears matching time. He snarls, fucking _snarls_ like an animal, and runs full speed, diving at the vampire headfirst.

It's possibly the stupidest thing he's ever done.

The vampire lands underneath him, yes, great, but Pete's still one hundred and fifteen pounds wet and the vampire's stronger than anything he's ever gone against. The stake in his pocket digs into his thigh, splinters reaching past fabric to jab into his leg, and he's reaching for it with one hand, slamming his fist into the vampire's face with the other, the crack of bone satisfying even though there's a good possibility it's his own breaking. He's got his hand on the hilt when the vampire tosses him off, sends him flying into a pew.

A corner sinks into his back. It feels like his spine is being ripped apart, vertebra by vertebra, as he topples to the floor, unable to move anything for a few seconds too long. He watches Andy kick out, catch the vampire's shin with the heel of his foot. There's a crack and the vampire stumbles for a moment. Hurley tries not to fight, but when he does he's a _master_. Feeling slides back into Pete' fingers and toes and tongue, and he scrambles back up, muscles and joints screaming murder.

The vampire takes a swing, manages to clock Andy in the jaw. Andy's head snaps back, but he manages to keep himself up, moving to the side a little too slowly, another solid punch landing at his ribs. There's the sick crack of bone again, and Hurley goes down, eyes wide, breath coming short. Pete loses it.

"Mother _fucker_ ," he shouts, tackling the vampire down again. He kneels on its back, grinding down, gripping handfuls of its dirty hair. He's slamming the thing's head into the floor over and over, yelling. Andy's still on the floor, alive but gasping, holding his side like it'll fall off if he lets go. There's a crash behind him, and then Pete's on the floor again, snarling and thrashing, his back gone numb from pain.

It's Joe, clutching a jagged edge of wood that must have been at one point an armrest of a pew. Joe kicks Pete away and throws his weight down on the makeshift stake as he shoves it through the vampire's back. Pete hears it smack into the ground, sees the vibrations ride up through Joe's arms. The vampire's eyes go wide, set deep in its beaten face, impaled. Then, it explodes into a sea of ash.

Patrick is at Andy's side, carefully prying Andy's hands away from his chest to check the damages. Pete's not close, but even he can see the way Andy's ribs cave in a little. Patrick lifts the side of Andy's shirt up and runs careful fingers down the steadily bruising skin. 

"Broken," Patrick says uselessly. "Breathe deep, come on." He holds a firm hand to Andy's chest and leans in close, ear to skin. Andy grits his teeth for a moment, the shake in his arms concerning. It's obviously painful, but Patrick just nods and tells him to do it one more time. Andy exhales shakily and tries again. "Lungs aren't punctured. Thank fucking god."

"You take a med class when we weren't looking?" Joe asks, trying and failing to grin. 

"Something like that," Patrick says quietly. "We need to get you to a fucking hospital." 

"There's a small war outside," Pete says, helping Patrick to gently lean Andy back against the wall furthest from the open window. "It might cause a few issues." Patrick pushes up, half-way across the room before Pete can figure out what he's doing. "Patrick, get back here."

"Stay here," Patrick says, shoving his jacket off his arms and wrapping it around his right hand. He's still clearing the jagged pieces of window off the bottom of the window frame when Pete manages to limp over to him. 

"You're a fucking idiot," Pete hisses. "Fucking- Andy fucking broke his ribs trying to keep you safe. He put his fucking _life_ on the line. You're just- you're going to _throw yourself_ out there in fucking spite of that?" There's fire in Patrick's eyes, danger. Pete's coming off his endorphin high, spine aching, arms stiff, but he'll take Patrick down if he has to. If that's what it takes.

"Don't." Patrick throws his jacket down, the tinkle of broken glass almost lost under the yells outside. "I have to go out there."

"No you don't." Pete fists a hand in the collar of Patrick's shirt, yanking him forward. Their jaws crack together, blood spills over Pete's newly busted lip. He can't let them get Patrick, can't let him get hurt. "Please." Patrick's tight in his arm, wound up. The hands on his back are hot, familiar, and he fucking. He loves this half kid half demon so much that he'd rather _die_ than let him get hurt. 

"I have to," Patrick says again. He pulls back and Pete's heart aches. "You've gotta take me on that date, right?" It hurts to laugh, and Pete's lip stings when Patrick kisses him, quick and dry and a little frantic. "Cover your ears." Patrick turns back to Joe and Andy and repeats himself. Joe gives him a thumbs up and helps Andy boost his arms up. "I'm serious, Pete. Don't listen." Patrick stares at him like he's going to war- he is, Pete thinks sadly, and he may not come back- and Pete nods.

"Promise."

\---

This isn't how he saw tour going. 

Patrick crawls through the window, not letting himself look back. He can't afford to be off guard, not with the hoard of vampires around, or Abyzou floating above the battle, smug. Buffy's bleeding in the middle of all of it, her hair matted to the side of her face. Willow's running from battle to battle, trying to lend a hand, but her spells are getting weaker and weaker, and she herself is getting slower. Xander and Spike are back to back, a blur of silver weapons and dust, high and low voices catcalling. Spike seems fine, but Xander is getting tired, sweat pouring off him in tiny rivulets. 

Something's burning, smoke in the air, clouding the sky. The smell is acrid, thick and pungent, layered over top of the musty stink of the dust covering the lawn. So much destruction, devastation, and it's all his fault. Patrick has a brief longing to just walk into the middle of battle and give himself up. Say, _I'm what you want, not them. Take me, let them go_. He can't and he won't, but the thought lingers as Willow catches sight of him. She runs his way, skipping over vampires, panting.

"What are you _doing_?" She asks breathlessly.

"Helping," Patrick answers. God, he hopes he is. "Can you get everyone to cover their ears?" Willow nods, understanding bright behind her eyes.

"Good luck," she says before dashing off, heading towards Spike and Xander first. Patrick climbs the side of the synagogue, tired arms and legs gripping at ledges until he manages to monkey his way over top of the busted window, perching precariously on the thin ledge. If a vampire or Abyzou doesn't get him, he might just end up snapping his own neck.

When Buffy looks up, she clamps her hands over her ears, kicking away the vampires closing in on her. Spike's shoved Xander up a tree- which would be hilarious at any other time- and has his own hands up tight against his head. He may still hear, ears more sensitive, and Patrick hopes fervently that nothing bad happens to him. Patrick can't see Willow, so he says a quick prayer that she's hiding, keeping herself deaf to him.

Abyzou shrieks. She's seen him. Patrick swallows, mouth dry. He's never had stage fright, but this is what he always thought it would be like- nausea, tongue thick in his mouth, hands sweating against the stone of the synagogue- and he doesn't really ever want to repeat the experience. Most of the vampires are staring up at him, a few still picking at Buffy and Spike, catcalling. Patrick takes a slow, deep breath. He was born to sing. He can do this. Abyzou is leering, her gaping mouth black, shrieking as she floats closer to him. Patrick swallows. This is it.

He sings. It feels raw, all of him slipping out through his throat. Abyzou's face darkens. Her arms move to raise up, but Patrick drops a note, tells her _no_ , says _this is not your turn to win_. The vampires are howling, shrieking as they fall to their knees. One explodes into dust. Spike's shaking, teeth grit, eyes shut tightly.

Patrick lets it out, wordless and painful, in a way he never has before. He sees Abyzou's green face go pale as he belts out a refrain of _you will leave or you will die_ , catches sight of another vampire crumpling to dust as he breaths in a _none of you are welcome here_. He can feel the adoration of the weakest vampires thick on his skin, sliding over him like armor.

Abyzou howls. It sounds like she's mourning, toneless and cold, sinking to the ground. Patrick's lungs are burning, his skin tight and hot. The fire in the bushes takes out three vampires that are staring up at him, dazed and blissful. They don't move, even as they're burned to ashes. Abyzou hits the ground, sobbing into the dark patches of her arms.

Patrick keeps singing, a melody of _I'm sorry_ to Pete, a thick rhythm of _I didn't mean to bring this here_ to Buffy and Xander and Willow, a willowy chorus of _this is what you'll always be_ to himself. Abyzou rocks back and forth on the ground, her wracking sobs filling in the places he's missing.

Patrick's not sure if this song is better of worse, but it doesn't matter because Buffy is closing in on Abyzou's hunched figure, the rope coiled around her waist slipping down to her hips as she comes to stand behind Abyzou's hunched form.

Buffy looks up at Patrick and he breaks off, nodding. He slams his elbow back into the high, round window behind him as Buffy ties thick coils of the demon's hair into a writing, messy tail, knotting the rope tightly as Abyzou shrieks. 

The vampires are still entranced, staring up at Patrick like he can save them, even as Buffy tosses the free end of the rope up to him. Praying Pete heard the crash, Patrick wraps the rope around his fists and jumps through the window. 

It's like free falling for a few terrifying moments, plummeting towards the floor at high speed. The heavy weight of Abyzou on the other side brings him to a sudden stop, jerking his shoulders hard enough to pop, his palms burning as he slides down the rough rope, hands tightening in an effort to keep himself from dropping the rest of the way.

"Hey, I got you," Pete says, clambering onto a pew to steady his hands on Patrick's waist.

"Grab the rope," Patrick yells over Abyzou's bloodcurdling screams, doing his best to hang on. Pete's hands tighten on his waist, and Patrick can already feel a bad plan going through Pete's head. "No, Pete, don't you-"

Pete uses his leverage on Patrick's hips to boost himself up, monkeying his way up to above where Patrick's still got a death grip. Their combined weight overpowers Abyzou's, and Patrick feels his sneakers brush the pew.

"Jump," Pete says, wrapping his arms up in what little slack is left. The rope bites into his skin, turning it a raw sort of red at the edges. 

"You're an idiot," Patrick says as Pete rocks, bringing them back down again. Still, his hands are nearly numb and his shoulders feel like they've come loose. On the next tug, Patrick lets go. 

Pete doesn't so much fly up as bounce, already swinging himself towards the wall. Patrick jumps up when he gets close, shoving him hard. It's enough to send Pete close enough to the shattered lower window that he can shove one foot out and catch it on the ledge. Glass cuts into the flimsy canvas of his shoe, but he pulls with it anyway until he's outside, balanced on the bottom ledge by sheer force of will.

Xander takes the rope from him and secures it to the building. Patrick's there when Pete falls back, catching him with an _oomph_. Pete whoops and hollers, twisting in Patrick's arms until he can kiss him, wet mouth and grabbing hands and _Pete_ , and Patrick laughs into it because he hadn't really planned on making it out alive. When Pete lets him up, Patrick helps him limp to the window to watch Spike and Xander and Buffy stake the kneeling vampires one by one.

"Poor blokes," Spike mutters as he half-heartedly presses the end of a stake into one of their chests. "At least let 'em fight."

"Your kinky demon ways are disturbing," Xander says, dancing out of the way of the falling dust of the last vampire in his row. He squeaks when Spike leers at him, and Pete laugh raucously, leaning heavily into Patrick's side. 

"Korean Tom Cruise is totally going to kill us when we tell him we're out a drummer," Pete says, watching Willow and Buffy eye the twisting, shrieking demon tied to the building. 

"And a bassist," Patrick says dryly. His voice is hoarse, like he's been sick for days. Maybe they're out a singer, too. "Joe could be a one man band."

"I totally can, motherfuckers," Joe calls, wiping the sweat off Andy's face gently, trying not to wake him. "You guys good?"

"Not dead, so I'm going with yes." Pete puts more of his weight on Patrick, and Patrick figures it's got more to do with wanting to be coddled than any more actual pain. Not that he won't coddle Pete to an inch of his life later, behind closed doors. 

"Yeah," Patrick says, hiding his grin behind his free hand. "We're good."

\---

Andy's got two broken ribs and a bruised ego. He's leaned up in his hospital bed, chest bare- "they don't use wraps anymore, Pete, shut the fuck up about it and let the doctors do their jobs"- but turning a nasty blue black all up the injured side. It looks kind of cool near his tattoos, but also sort of super painful. Pete has the irrational urge to jab at it until Andy calls the scary male nurse back. Willow's attending to him though, cooing over his battle scars like she hasn't dealt with worse before. 

Joe's clean- how, Pete will never know- but Patrick's got a nasty gash up the back of his arm and the worst case of rope burn Pete's ever seen across his palms. Both will probably leave thick, pink scars behind, and Pete's a little saddened by it. He himself has a sprained ankle, a deep cut along his shin, and the worst sort of back pain ever. Thankfully, nothing back there is broken. 

"Welcome to Sunnydale," Xander says, handing Andy a plate of plain nachos. "You've officially made citizenship after your first hospital visit."

"Awesome," Andy says, wincing as he sits up. Willow frets over the pillows behind his back. Pete smirks at Patrick and they both roll their eyes. Seriously. "Can I leave now?"

"Yep. Paperwork's all filled out," Buffy says from the door. There's a butterfly bandage at her temple, but other than that she looks fine, dolled up like she's going out. "Giles is getting your prescription."

"So," Pete starts, flopping down onto Patrick's lap. The waiting chair- and Patrick- squeak in protest. "Thanks, seriously, for helping us out. Like, we'd be dead if you guys didn't step in." Buffy shrugs.

"No big," she says, smiling. "It's kind of my day job." If he didn't think it would get him smacked around on both sides, Pete would kiss her. As is, he settles for squirming on Patrick's lap and flashing Buffy the biggest smile he can.

Some time later, Giles walks through the door with both Andy's pills and a bag full of doughnuts. They all crowd in the small room, Joe and Pete and Patrick all pile at Andy's side, and make idle chatter. Pete takes down Xander's number to keep him updated on the new songs they've been working on; Andy takes down Willow's. Pete raises his eyebrows. Andy shrugs, immediately grimacing at the pain. Willow fusses accordingly. Apart from the demon slaying and the near-death thing, he's going to miss Sunnydale. 

Giles gives them a ride back to the van, which looks neglected, parked behind the Summers’ house. They climb in, and no one says anything as they all get reacquainted with it. It's only been a few days, but it feels like they've been away from it for forever. 

Joe slips behind the wheel after helping Andy gently into the passenger's seat. Willow waves brightly from the window and Andy leans out to kiss her. Pete whistles as loudly as he can. If he could, he'd slap Andy on the back. As it is, he's forced to make due by curling up on Patrick's lap in the middle row. As far as compensation goes, it's not a bad deal. The road to Chicago- to _home_ \- is going to be a long one, but the soft song Patrick's singing above him might just make the trip seem shorter. 

The van rattles out of Sunnydale, the bad back tire squealing ominously as Joe makes a turn onto an exit ramp. Andy breathes in sharply in the passenger’s seat, popping the healing pills Willow had slipped him alongside his prescription. In the rearview mirror, there’s a flash of emerald green. Pete sits up quick enough to startle Patrick, his back screaming in protest. He cranes around to look behind them, but all he sees is the stretch of road on either side. 

“You okay?” Patrick asks as he settles back down.

“Yeah,” Pete answers, watching the mirror as they pass onto the interstate. “I’m good.”


End file.
